


What's In a Name?

by Dreamy_Serenade



Category: GURPS, Original Work
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Identity, Memories, Monstrous Character, Self Dehumanization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21563716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamy_Serenade/pseuds/Dreamy_Serenade
Summary: It does not quite know who it used to be.
Relationships: Butcher Pete & Barkley Valentine
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sort of character study that's been rattling around my brain for a year or two.
> 
> Please note that the narrator uses dehumanizing language regarding themself, including but not limited to using it/its pronouns throughout.

It does not quite know who it used to be.

Sometimes, it has an inkling. A notion. A tug in its chest towards a place it cannot pinpoint. A feeling, long forgotten.

Sometimes, when the two of them have burrowed away for the long, lonely night out there in the wasteland, the butler speaks of them, that person of Before. His voice falls soft and low, a murmur-- a strange cadence for a man who, as a rule, always speaks with decorum, diction, pride.

 _You were strong even then,_ he’d say. _Smart and strong and full of heart._

It’s an old ache, a long-familiar twinge in the chest that is roused by Valentine’s reminiscing-- the wistfulness, the faraway nostalgia of it all. And those memories are indeed so far away-- forgotten, purposefully, or by time’s unyielding march onward. Where several lifetimes of memories should be, there is a steep fog.

On nights like this, Valentine guides them through, careful, winding paths through days long past.

_A vast blue sky, grass stains, mud upon boots._

_Clanging, clashing of metal. His face, younger, less scarred, a sword pointed at his chest. Beaming with pride. Satisfaction._

Some days, it’s nice. They’ll close their eyes, let his words wash over them, let their mind float away in those bygone rememberings, to a time and place before the world fell ill to waste, to the eternal gray. It will lie awake long after he’s finally retired for the night, replaying the fragments, the tattered remains he had urged forward.

_An open road. Static on the radio. Boots kicked up on the dashboard._

_A dimly lit space, flashing neon lights. The smell of booze and leather. Laughter, distant and fuzzy. A rambling, upbeat tune you can't quite place._

_The nighttime sky, full and sparkling with stars, stars that you have not seen for a very long time, stars you may never see again in your long, long life._

_A deep sense of tragedy, of despair, of loss, loss, what have you_ lost _\--_

It’s an old pain. Sometimes, remembering is all it can think about. Sometimes, it has never been more afraid of remembering.

It is so different from Valentine. He, he had chosen long ago to hold on to his memories, the past, himself. His personhood. He affirms his choice every day.

But it. It had given up. The world became harsh and cruel, and so it needed to be strong-- protect itself, protect Valentine. It learned the ways of the wasteland, and so, little by little, piece by piece, it traded what it was before away.

It is not of the same make as Valentine anymore, if it ever was to begin with. But he stays anyway, still cares anyway. It may not be human anymore, but it still knows gratitude.

All of it so hurts to think about. So they don't, always. As often as not, when Valentine starts his rambling, it’ll roll over, turn away, tune him out with a practiced ease.

On the worst days, it simply goes. Leaves for a while-- to hunt, to scavenge, to simply walk until its thoughts are empty. It used to get so angry, at the remembering or the lack of it. It used to feel the phantom taste of ash in its mouth, the furious heartbeat within its ribcage, struck with the knowledge that it is what it is now, and that it does not have the luxury to change.

It’d insist that they didn't need those memories, not really. It didn't matter what they used to be. What is identity to a something that only used to be someone, after all?

A reminder. Something it couldn't forget-- could not, would not, refused to forget.

It had settled in their mind, the very pillar of self. And it was reflected, always-- in fearful eyes, in hateful glares, in shards of broken glass-- it was reminded.

Monster.


	2. Chapter 2

These days, though, it doesn’t mind so much. It knows what it is, and it knows what it’s capable of.

An old ache. Everything aches, all the time. Old news. That's one perk of being centuries old, it supposes-- plenty of time to come to terms with oneself.

The two of them do all right for themselves out in the wastes. They navigate around with practiced ease, avoiding humans and their settlements, the hostile wasteland creatures and their known territories. It can certainly hold its own in a fight, doesn’t mind the occasional one with something that wants to eat them, but it does not enjoy killing humans needlessly.

On the bright side, the common bandit isn’t all that dead set on going toe to toe with them.

Even more, as of late, humans will flee at the mere sight of them, with frightened shouts and a peculiar name, spoken with terror upon their lips--

_Butcher Pete._

The words are still rattling around its skull as they hunker down for the evening.

It’s an abandoned farmhouse today, out in the sticks. Valentine is working on starting a fire in the fireplace, which likely hasn’t seen so much as a spark for a century or two.

It sits on the ground, back against the rickety old couch, boredly watching Valentine work. Restless. It looks over the room, filled with dirt and dust and debri from long-broken windows to the occasional hole in the very walls of the place. It’s dragging fingers through the thick coating of dirt across the floor when it’s struck by the thought.

With one blackened claw, it begins writing in the dirt.

The fire sparks, lights, and a soft orange glow illuminates their faces. Valentine turns his attention back, meeting its eyes, then casting his eyes downward, reading the scrawling script.

 _“I Like Butcher Pete,”_ they’d written.

Valentine raises his eyebrows, just a little. One might have missed it. “Rather menacing, isn't it?”

It nods. That’s what it likes about it.

He hums, appraising. “I’m surprised it took this long, for our reputations to precede us.”

 _“Used to be less people,”_ it replies.

“That's fair.”

It scrawls idle patterns in the dirt, shaky and uneven as it thinks. Then, another note. _“Didn't used to look like this, either.”_

Valentine tips his head in grim agreement, as his hand idly smooths over the faintly shimmering scales of crystal running up his neck and cheek. They’d nearly reached the top of his ear, now. “Time has changed us, my dear.”

 _“At least you’re shiny.”_ He chuckles, at that.

“Not so fashionable as _removable_ jewelry, I’m afraid.” He taps the scales with a fingernail, and it resonates with a soft clink. “Does it make me look younger?”

It rolls its eyes-- _“no”_.

“Damn,” he mutters, but there’s a light in his eyes as he prods the fire. He lets out a put-upon sigh. “Oh, well. I’m old. No use in denying, I suppose.”

 _We both are,_ it thinks, but doesn’t write it.

They sit in companionable silence a while, dutifully ignoring the strange, distant sounds of the wasteland night.

After a while, Valentine breaks the silence. “That name, is that what you’d like to be called?”

That brings it pause. It’d had a name, before. Long ago and far away, it had a name that suited them, that fit, but now it does not strike the same satisfaction. Now, it does not fit. Butcher Pete, though-- maybe.

It considers for just a moment, rolling the name around in their mind, feeling it out. _“Yes.”_

With that, Valentine nods. “So it’ll be, my dear,” he says.

The corners of Pete’s eyes crinkle, and it’s more of a smile than Valentine has seen in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one duo of RPG characters that I went absolutely *hogwild* with in terms of abilities, appearance, backstory, and, of course, angst... They take care of each other, though. And also? I love them. :'(
> 
> A tidbit: BP eventually gets around to referring to themselves as they/them, particularly after they make some human friends who treat them well... But for this piece and this aspect of BP I wanted to explore, this outcome felt appropriate.
> 
> My apologies if it's hard to follow without context! But thanks for reading anyhow. <3
> 
> (Both characters belong to me.)


End file.
